


Ephemera

by obsolete_theory (ersatzbeta)



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Arctic Exploration, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 13:14:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1606469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ersatzbeta/pseuds/obsolete_theory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We have reached the edges of the territory explored by our predecessors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ephemera

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written 4/26/14, for the following prompt on LJ:
> 
> "Saiyuki: Northwest Passage Route Searching AU. Gojyo/Hakkai, it's getting very cold and well, they definitely have to share their sleepingbags. (Hjalmar Johansen was the first to do so with Fridtjof Nansen when they almost froze their asses off on their route to the North Pole, in case you wonder why it's something worth mentioning.)
> 
> Please make this happen. ANYTHING WITH FREEZING EXPLORERS WHO CUDDLE (and well, I definitely won't mind some groping or more)."
> 
> Yes, the story starts out with "Week Three."
> 
> The second 'chapter' is actually a companion piece. I thought it would be better to present them as they are: two closely-linked pieces, rather than as a series.
> 
>  
> 
> .

Week Three

Hired guide: 127 Krónur. A most mercenary fee for one man, his sled, and his team of dogs. Feeding them all may prove a challenge despite all preparations.

 

Week Six

Arrived, at last, at our northernmost posting. The dogs are anxious to begin. I am no less enervated, though our guide is looking grim. No doubt the stress of the anticipated challenges ahead of us. It is not common for two men to attempt such a journey; less common still to do it with only the company of sled-dogs and whatever wild creatures lay before us on the route to Progress.

 

Week Seven

The ink  bottles have shattered to a one. Forgive the smudges of this pencil, but we must persevere.

 

Week Nine

Despite our equipment, the cold eats at one. Even our guide, G--, appears frosted around the edges. The hood of his parka is perhaps not as well lined as it looks, though he espouses nothing but positives when we make camp.

 

Week Ten

The dogs are beginning to be hungry. We see the sacrifices they make for us, and our guide is making sacrifices in return; he insists a portion of his own meals be, instead, given to the dogs. How strong the connection between Man and his Nature.

 

Week Eleven, Day One

We have reached the edges of the territory explored by our predecessors. The sight of white bears in the distance is enough to hurry us onward.

 

Week Eleven, Day Three

 

Week Twelve, Day Four

The wind howls worse than the dogs, but even they cringe from Nature's wrath. Their master comforts them as best he can, but he cannot disguise the worry in his eyes from our keen observation.

 

Week Eleven, Day Five

The cold has killed one of the dogs. The guide mourns as he drapes its corpse with sacking. The wind is starting to lessen.

 

Week Eleven, Day Six

The storm has rendered the landscape in great banks of white. It is a struggle to return to the Journey. The guide is subdued, but agrees to continue one dog short. After all, what can one do in such circumstances?

 

Week Twelve

It is deathly cold among the great drifts of ice. The snow fools one's eyes into believe in a safe route, which dissipates as soon as the sled runners hit an upthrust and the equipment is scattered. We have reloaded the sled a dozen times, and that is only today.

 

Week Twelve, day Three

 

 

Another dog has died. Out of Compassion for our guide, have agreed to stop early today.

 

Week Twelve, Day Four

The white bears plague us and make the remaining dogs nervous. One is sure that Nature is only taking its course. Nonetheless, our guide wastes precious time chasing them off from the dog's corpse before we break camp.

 

Week Twelve, Day Five

Another storm. We are forced to camp only a few miles further on, where we can shelter under the edges of a large ice shelf. We fervently pray it does not shift in the night.

 

Week Twelve, Day Six

The storm continues to pit its fury against us.

 

Have discovered early frostbite despite our boots. The guide chafes one's toes between his hands and demands we build a bigger fire with our limited resources. His Earnesty settles home in our breast, and we reluctantly agree.

 

Week Thirteen, Day One

It is too cold even to write.

 

The storm does not cease, and we are wearied of it all.

 

 

Week Thirteen, Day Two

Our guide insists that we lay together, sharing our sleeping space and making do as close as possible to the fire.

 

Ones toes have not yet regained proper feeling, but the guide radiates a warmth that cannot be denied.

 

 

Week Thirteen, Day Three

The storm continues.

 

After some argument, have agreed to end this expedition prematurely.

 

It is galling to fail so thoroughly.

 

We huddle under the blankets and try to survive another night.

 

 

Week Thirteen, Day four

Despite the cold, there is a lighter feeling here, now that we have made decisions upon which to act.

 

The sharing of our blankets has helped improve Morale tremendously. (G-- laughs when he reads this entry, though I cannot imagine why.)

 

Perhaps it is wishful thinking, but the storm appears at last to be easing.

 

Week Thirteen, Day Five

 

One wishes to detail the previous evening. And, since it is unlikely that anyone will ever read these scribblings--be it from lack of interest or that we never make it home--a more explicit description may be made.

 

Our arrangement was this: The fire in the center of the ledge, making the heart of our camp. Our sleeping space next to that, close enough that stray sparks singed the furs with which we covered the ground. (Fortunately, we had never had a full-out conflagration.) At our feet and to the sides of our blankets lay the remaining dogs, on what sacking remains.

 

As to the matter of Morale, it is known to Man that sharing space will share warmth. So, naturally, one's inclination is to draw as close to that warmth as possible. This cheers a man who has for so many days and weeks been on the precipice of defeat: by Nature, by the cold, by his own Ambitions to Explore.

 

It has been so dreadfully cold all along that chafing one's limbs through the bulk of one's protective gear is not enough to keep one warm beyond the duration of the friction.

 

Thus, on this evening, both G-- and oneself had agreed to strip these outermost garments off and add them as a final layer of bedding. Naturally, this created an environment of artificial Intimacy between us.

 

Two men, under the same blankets, at risk of freezing to death, to never see home again, are undoubtedly pushed to the edge of convention. Thus, it is only a small step from Convention's bounds to the outermost Extremes of Behavior. And anything that causes one's blood to course so can only be a positive in such circumstances.

 

Any Gentleman can surely agree that huddling for warmth may cause reactions in such proximity to another warm being. And if such huddling leads to the chafing of limbs, all the better. And from limbs, the stroking of the sides, the torso, the back. All such things touched are a Good and Positive thing, and to return such attentions is the very spirit of the gentleman.

 

And if Chafing and Stroking lead to a certain amount of grappling, so much the better. Athleticisms are to be commended under such circumstances, and are proof of the dominating Spirit of man. To grow and to thrive under adverse conditions, to thrust forth with all one's might; to dance along the edges of Death, to tumble unreservedly over to the side of Life; and to share this experience with another like-minded man…

 

It is thrilling to the core.

 

 

 

Week Twenty-Three:

Have arrived back at the Outpost. No more dogs have died, thank God, nor have any limbs been lost to frostbite. Though there is a certain weariness in us from our exertions to keep warm on our Journey back, one anticipates dissipation of this with the application of a proper bed and plenty of hot meals.

 

 

Week Twenty-Seven:

It is with great anticipation that I arrange another expedition with our Guide, to brave Nature again in the following year.

 

Our Guide has agreed to also keep notes, in the spirit of Scientific Inquiry.

 

It shall be a most thorough Survey.

 


	2. Dogsbody

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a reminder, this is a companion piece to Ephemera. Enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> .

**Dogsbody**

Only lunatics go out on the ice. Lunatics and men who want to die.

I know this. My father knew this. My grandfather too, before he walked out and never came back. So why does this man want to go? He is educated, a man of science, a man who wants to explore the world.

He would do better to explore somewhere else.

I tell this man no, I would not go, not for a hundred Krónur. My dogs mean more to me than that. I mean more to me than that.

If he were as smart as he claims to be, he would value himself a little higher too.

 

The man of science is a card sharp.

I have certain skills myself, acquired during time between supply runs with whoever cares to cut the deck. Sometimes I lose. Often I win.

More the fool am I, for taking his bet, his whisky, and the smile that does not reach past his mouth.

He is apologetic, in his eyes. I take the money. It is small consolation: we'll die on the ice together. Two frozen fools. That is, if the ship doesn't sink getting us to where he wants to go.

 

It doesn't sink.

My girls are glad to run after a month aboard, even if it is only from the docks to the depot, and I am glad for air that doesn't stink of piss or bilge and a few minutes to think, away from the mad schemes of H—, my lunatic employer.

He is an impractical man. It is up to me to supply us with the practical things, firewood and kerosene; food for the dogs and for us; and as much equipment as we dare carry. 

H— has, thank the gods, got the sense to have the best tents and ground cloths and plenty of furs with him.

We will need them, out on the ice.

Owing to H—'s inexperience driving a sled, my girls will pull doubled, with one sled hitched to the other and H— hanging on. It would be better if we could take only one sled and give half the dogs the chance to run alongside if they're not pulling, but there's no room for the equipment and a passenger too. 

They, at least, do not care that we will not reach the goal, this means of a northern passage H— desires to find though he does not know the ways of the ice. The dogs just know to run. I will run with them for as long as I can. I do not know if H— will ever learn to do the same.

 

This is as far north as H—has ever traveled. It is not far enough for him. As for me, I have been much farther, though not in this exact place. 

The sun is dazzling on the snow, and I have to force H— to put on his goggles before he blinds himself. I do not tell him he is already blinded by his ambitions, because he is also deaf. Compelling, in a mad, green-eyed way, but deaf.

 

We make camp just ahead of a storm. H— doesn't want to stop so early, but my girls know and I know the scent of snow on the wind. I fear for them more than anything else; they trust me to give them work and food and shelter, and I do not know that that trust is warranted, these days.

 

It is many rounds of cards later, and a night of shrieking wind and ice crystals and bone coldness, when I check on my girls and find that Hilda has died.

She was old and loyal, and I can't have asked for a better dog. At least she is curled up with the warmth of the pack around her. I hope to bury her when the storm ends.

I'm not sure I will have even that, if H— continues north.

 

I am tired. My dogs are tired. Everyone is cold. 

Thank the gods the sleds are lighter now, because they are getting harder to pull every day, I think. The snow makes for a poor surface, and there's not much I can do but to right them when they tip after skidding over some uneven ground that's hidden by the fresh powder.

It makes my chest seize when I discover Cadi's feet are bleeding. We can't afford to carry her, and I can't leave her behind for the bears. At the pace we set, wrapping her paws won't make a real difference; she'll freeze them, cut them worse and suffer.

Cadi will kill herself trying for me. I can't let her. She's my girl, and I can't let her.

On the ice, sometimes a sharpened knife is the most versatile tool you can carry. 

These bones can feel another storm coming. Tonight then, or earlier if I can convince H— to stop before we're stuck making camp in a driving wind.

Oh, Cadi.

 

H— is more of a fool than I'd believed. He's getting frostbite, but he doesn't see the need to slow down. I won't be thankful for a blizzard like this, but at least I can warm his feet before I have to cut his toes off.

He looks at me, watches me work on him. With his toes in my hands, he agrees to more fire than what we've been having, which is good. The temperature is dropping and we will need more.

The dogs don't keep me as warm without Hilda and Cadi, and there is ice inside my chest when I breathe and think of them. I hope they run without ever getting tired, wherever they've gone. My poor dogs. 

But what of the living? We only have each other, here, H— and the dogs and I. The snow falls just as heavy as it has, and the wind continues to eat what is not devoured by the ice around us. If H— does not make the decision to return soon, I will give him back his damned Krónur and lash him to the shed and drive us back myself, if I have to.

He does not understand that there is only ice and snow here, but I pray he will soon. 

 

I can feel enlightenment is coming to H—. There is a certain look in his eye that tells me he is malleable now. And if he cares to make things more bearable and share my furs at night, so much the better. He has given me signs of such, though he does not speak directly of it to me.

H— lets me read his journaling, and it makes me laugh that he does not see in it what I see. 

Morale? Morale has nothing to do with how I feel about sharing a blanket with him. I will show him how I feel, if he will let me. Let him couch everything in terms of reason and exploration if he must; the man is clearly obsessed.

I did not have to take his bet. I did not have to honor it. Good sense would have had us turn back long before now. Since we have not, I feel safe in pushing H— a little, especially since it seems foregone that he would travel the same roads as me.

 

Warmth suffuses us, and we swelter beneath the blankets. It would be easier—different—if we were also trying to not freeze to death, but I will take what I am given in this. He is touching me, and I touch him back, from vigorous to languorous and everything in between.

We rut together this first night and it is good. There will be other chances, I think, and better ones for our skins to touch. He is a generous lover, and honest in his joy. 

My girls keep guard when we sleep. 

 

The journey back is hard. More storms plague us, and my back and legs ache all day after fucking.

Let H— use his flowery words. I do not care about that. I have seen him naked, seen him sweat and strain, seen him struggle to match my hand on him. I have watched his eyes go dark with want and have felt him push back against my fingers as we work together under the furs. 

He is a man driven to learn all things, and his passion for the sciences makes him prone to creativity and a most able learner. His fingers are artful, and his mouth can make a man feel weak.

It is a good thing we drive the sleds and do not walk; watching him stagger around camp in the mornings tells me he is not used to such efforts. I am more used to punishing my body; the way he smiles at me is worth the bruises and aches, which are worthy in their own right. 

 

Such is the way of things: we walk a road, sometimes together, sometimes apart. 

A parting has come. We have, at last, returned to the depot and are preparing to board the ship that will take me home. We sleep in separate beds and I try not to wonder what will happen to H— when he leaves. 

At least I have my girls for comfort when I am lonely. I do not think that H— has anything apart from his mania for explorations. I wish I could say something to him, but there is nothing to say that I have not said already.

 

Only lunatics and men who wish to die travel the northern ice. I have held H—'s life in my hands. Neither he nor I wish to die.

It must be madness, then, and it must be catching. 

I will see him in little more than a year's time, and we will try again to find our way through the ice. If we are lucky, H— will not have to go far to find what he needs, and I will travel with him as I can; even though a man can run alone, it is better to do it together. 

I do not understand this man of science, but I know the ice. And, I know how to run.


End file.
